“I will never forgive you for this.”
“You’ll forgive me by Thursday,” he says, walking toward the exit with total composure. “You always do.”
Two
Five years ago
Griffin
The trunk of my car is a Tetris grid of my entire life.
Tools, technical manuals, three pairs of boots, and the bridge schematics for the Verrazzano project that have been haunting my dreams for a month. I’m an engineer; I like things that make sense.
New York makes sense. The job makes sense. Leaving this town and the house my grandmother left me, which I just signed over to a young couple with a golden retriever, is the most logical choice I’ve ever made.
So why does my chest feel like it’s being crushed by a ton of concrete?
“You sure you have everything?” Noah’s mother Donna asks, wiping her hands on her apron as she steps out onto the porch.
I’ve eaten dinner at this table at least three nights a week for over a decade. I know the exact squeak of the third step, and the way the kitchen smells like cinnamon when she’s having a good day.
“I’m sure, Donna,” I say, though my voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. She clings to me a little tighter than usual when I hug her.
Noah claps me on the shoulder, his expression a mix of pride andI’m-going-to-miss-youthat he’s too stoic to put into words. Madison and Rowan have already given me the standard sibling send-off. Madison gave me a list of “Must-See” places in Manhattan, and Rowan gave me a shrug that didn’t quite hide the shimmer in her eyes.
Arthur shakes my hand. “We’ll miss you, son, but we’re proud of you.”
I dip my chin in thanks to the only father figure I’ve truly ever known.
I look past them, scanning the hallway, then the kitchen.
“Wait,” I say, my brow furrowing. “Where’s Piper?”
“She was here for dinner,” Rowan says. “Then she just drifted off.”
I wait a beat and listen. There’s no music playing and no sound of her tuning her violin, which means she isn’t in the house.
I head out the back door, the humidity of the evening clinging to my skin.
That’s where I find her. She’s at the edge of the yard, where the grass grows long and the shadows of the oaks are deepest. She’s sitting on the old wooden swing, the one with the rusted chains that I’ve promised to fix about a dozen times and never did.
“Not even a hug before I go?” I ask, leaning against the tree trunk.
She doesn’t look up at first. She’s wearing a green summer dress that makes her look like she belongs in the garden, her dark hair pulled back into a messy knot that a few stray curls have already escaped from.
When she finally looks at me, she offers a wobbly, paper-thin smile. “I hate goodbyes, Griff. You know that.”
“It’s not a goodbye.” I cross the grass and take the other swing. The chains groan under my weight. “I’ll be back from time to time, Pipes. New York isn’t the moon.”
“I know.” Her gaze drops to her feet, tracing patterns in the dirt with the toe of her sandal.
The silence stretches. I hate it. I want to fix it. I want to calculate the tension in her shoulders and find a way to redistribute the weight.
“I’m going to keep track of you, you know. I’ll see you in the magazines. Amazing reviews.” I pitch my voice like a 1940s newsboy. “Piper Callahan, the greatest talent in years.”
She rolls her eyes, a small laugh finally breaking through. “Stop it.”
“The most extraordinary violinist of her time!” I continue, undeterred. “Critics say she plays like an angel and talks back like a Callahan!”
